Hey Xanga, and hey anyone who still will look when this boy cries wolf,

I was reorganizing my browser tabs and things and, I don't know if it's just me or something, Xanga doesn't seem to have one of those mini icons that just about every other site on the web has.  Will anyone with more computer jargon tell me what I'm trying to name here?  It's like a desktop icon, only smaller, I guess, the size of a tray icon.  I suppose I could have just gone with tray icon, couldn't I have?  Are those called "tray" icons though?  The tiny little icons in the bottom right next to the clock?

Anyway, so I get to my homepage tab setup thing, and I decide that I want its organization to reflect the relative importance of, or frequency with which I visit these, my so named homepages.  Like homeboys, I got more than one, but not many more.  Eight.  I have eight homepages; it's all they'll let me have, but it's useful enough since I use the favorites tab like a universal internet bookmark slash browsing history.  Anyway, so I get it all tidied and just the way I want it, but suddenly there is this glaring omission that the low degree of OCD inside of me won't overlook (or, for the rhyme junkies and Beatles fans out there, "let it be"):

Every other page in the homepage tab has it's attendant diminutive icon, but Xanga does not.  Can anyone tell me why this is, that a community of creatives (and probably not a few OCD sufferers) has managed never to bring this to light, make a contest of things, I dunno, just demand that someone with the access take five minutes, cram a Xanga logo into the appropriate dimensions or formatting or whatever it would take and just, like, apply it?

I'm no computer genius, so I can't really judge how simple or complex the task really might be, but I'm sure I've noticed this for years now.  And, if no one else wants to, and I'm really the first anal retentive to point it out or complain about it, I'd gladly take the task on myself.

_____

Also: 

I believe I am actually, really, in the most plain sense of it, falling in love.  It's truly bizarre how life waits till you've more or less given up on seeking a thing out before it will just magically pop back out into the space right in front of you, or in my case, just a short drive north and west of you.

Also, also:

I've finally read a self-help book that was worth reading: Your Erroneous Zones by a Dr. Wayne Dyer.  Yeah, lame, punny title and all, but it was seriously worth my time and further thinking.  I'm slowly going to get everyone I know and love to read this book.  Dunno how old it is or how well it compares with the prevailing psychological thinking today, but I know some part of it really reached parts of me that needed reaching.  Ugh, a self-help book though.  A good one?  Yeah.

So, now that I've been running around and telling the few people in my life that it's over, I may as well say it here too:  The anxiety and depression are both very clearly, very much a part of the past.  It's like waiting around all this time were actually a plan dictated by a professional.  Everything that was wrong in my head has evaporated, and my perspective is back to a somewhat neutral balance.  When I look back on the times I was either really depressed or noticably manic, it's almost frightening how skewed things were from reality.  The depression tells you that everything is ultimately doomed, thus meaningless, and therefore any effort at change is futile and deluded.  The mania, just as convincingly, paints every imaginable thing as patently possible; everything is good, and so every idea is a good idea.  Either way, go too far with things and unpleasantness is unavoidable.  For the rest of my life, every time I feel inspired, a small voice in the back of my head will be muttering that it could be mania.  And for the other part of the rest of my life, I'll have to be somewhat consciously on guard against allowing myself to wallow in negative thinking.  But it's managable and it's going to be fine.  My circumstances haven't changed to match yet, but they're about to.  Life will be continuing shortly.

For this last depression, every rare time I stepped out of the house to meet with a friend or do some random thing in the world, I carried around my trusty little point-and-shoot digital camera.  It was always there, cozy in its little case, snug in a corner of my backpack, but it acted more as a talisman than a camera.  And I kept my guitar close by my bed here, but it was also always in its case.  I can be sure the darkness has receded whenever these things come out and resume their intended functions.

I had a meal last week with a good friend.  The experience was a revelation.  It wasn't anything fancy, but it was so well executed and served, down to the wine and dessert, that I was flooded with appreciation and gratitude the entire time.  It didn't give me back these wasted years and it didn't erase any hard memories, but it was such a great meal that it seriously would have made things easier if somehow, someone had been able to convince me that it was eventually coming.  Yeah, it was really that good.  And the other little enjoyable moments in life with family and friends and books, they've seemed more pronounced and more frequent.  The future as a concept seems kinder and also worth preparing for.

I'm going to be doing any future writing on a blogspot account from here on out.  I don't know how many people even read me here anymore, and the place just feels like I'm some old guy hanging out at the mall, like haunting the food court and lurking in the arcade.  Do they even have arcades anymore?  So, to save a bunch of people getting some impersonal mass-mailing, if you want to read what I write on blogspot, just message me here on xanga. 

But this isn't exactly goodbye, at least, not yet.  I'll still be checking in to read a few people I still want to read.  Maybe I'll be dropping comments here and there.  And it's not like there's some rule that says I can only post at one place at a time.  But it'll probably be mostly over there.  I don't even know that I'll be writing that regularly over there either.  We'll see.

I feel like I've just seen a ghost. 

"Life is absurd
But you are free
So be merry"

When I stumbled upon this photo in the vast expanse of the internet, I was immediately dumbstruck.  I felt, as I imagine schizophrenics must often feel, that they were meant to address me directly.  Fortunately I am not a schizophrenic, but I cannot shake the impression that this message was meant for me, even if I am still capable of recognizing that they were clearly intended to be read by as many people as might happen to see and comprehend them. 

[many more sentences should intervene here]

Seeing as I am currently able to string some words together, the condition (having been struck dumb) must be correcting itself.  But there are so many more thoughts, all jostling against one another at the moment, dying for lack of expression.  I suppose I am not up to the task just yet. 

Don't let it go away
This feeling has got to stay
Don't let it go away
This feeling has got to stay
And I can't believe I've had this chance now
Don't let it go away

Just as I was pulling into the driveway tonight, this familiar old song started playing on the radio.  Although I'm somewhat sure the lyrics are more about having found a new love, the chorus seemed to be speaking directly to me.  So, I parked the car, released my seatbelt, killed the lights and engine, and sat back to hear the rest of it out.

At this point, I'm pretty sure the depression is gone.  I keep having these moments that feel like I'm breathing again after having held my breath for the last two years.  It's a relief to put it mildly.  I used to get glimpses of the feeling every now and then, sometimes after having gone without sleep for a day, but I'd eventually go to bed and wake to find it had vanished. 

I was getting ready to pack it up and head inside when the next song came on:  "Fade into you."  Before the lyrics even began, I had cracked the window a few inches and lit up a cigarette.  This time, I couldn't quite put my finger on the reason why I wanted to keep listening, but I settled back into my seat anyway.  I could feel the cold air pouring in and down onto my lap as the residual warmth from the drive home wafted out with the smoke.  The rearview and driver's side mirrors reflected different views of the Christmas lights my father had strung up here.  The light was enough to faintly illuminate the areas near them; oddly looping, overpopulated constellations floating in near darkness.

And the chance I've now had that I can't believe I've been given is the chance to feel like I'm breathing again, the chance to experience and appreciate life like I used to. 

The opening riff to "Blister in the sun" finally got me up out of my seat.  Don't get me wrong, it's every bit an old favorite as the other two songs.  It was the rhythm of it.  It got into my legs and feet, and in my mind, as I found myself walking towards the house, I was hearing it play as the background music to the closing credits on this night.

Wherever you are, however things might be going, don't forget to stop and take a breath every now and then.  Merry Christmas!

...or...

...how my decrepit red car was recently touched by an angel...

so, about two or three months ago now, i took my car in to be seen by a mechanic; chinese mechanic, speaks enough english to explain to me why i should just trust his superior experience and wisdom and knows enough car-part-related hand-gestures to explain most of the basics.  so, basically, i trust the guy.  also, he came highly recommended from a person whose opinions on such matters i not only trust, but prize.  there.

so, after the mechanic and his tireless, indomitable crew took to my engines and made whatever was wrong right again, one of them proceeded to explain to me why one more thing should be fixed soon, that it would cost so much and take so much more time, but that it could theoretically be put off for quite some time.  ah, so much closer to the bones of the thing now.

so, i've been driving around in my beat-up excuse for a red sports car, complete with hand-me-down rims from my little brother (i think i helped pay for them once upon a time, so they're kinda mine too?), and periodically stopping to refill the transmission fluid (that little cup that wants more and more DOT-3 or DOT-4 fluids, like an ever thirsting infant) in order to be able to, well, to shift.  this has been going on for about the last three or four days, maybe.

so, i was driving around the new neighborhood, finally getting around to checking the quality level of our local KFC, when, while waiting for a left-turn light to go green, all pressure seemed to drop, literally drop right out from under my clutch.  i rammed it out of first and into neutral with the very last of its juice.  and i sat there idling in the left turn lane of a pretty busy, pretty major intersection, wondering what the fuck i could possibly do.  i clicked on the hazards, yanked up the emergency break, and opened the driver's side door.

when the light finally turned green-arrow for us, i dropped the brake handle and started heaving my car through its left turn.  the intersection was relatively level, maybe slightly uphill towards the middle, but i was making decent progress, yelling, huffing and screaming all the way, basically, cursing my car and cheerleading for myself simultaneously. 

i was surrounded on all possible quarters by onlookers sitting smugly and snugly inside their properly maintained, properly operating vehicles.  the light was still green, and the folks behind me in turn for the same left turn had thankfully begun creeping their asses around me, politely abstaining from honking any horns or even shouting curses at me or any of my potential progeny.  i was relieved.  i was about two-thirds of the way through my turn.  i was handling things about as well as could be imagined...by me...for me...under those circumstances.

suddenly, it was as if someone had tilted the axis of the very earth underneath my feet.  the car was rolling along nicely and would easily make it into the parking lot entrance in time to block no further traffic.  i let out a whoop of pure, mad joy and triumph.  and while my head lolled back in ecstasy, out of the corner of my eye, i noticed a man, either white or latino, not sure, sort of pushing along behind the car, trying not to look like he had noticed my "whoop".  and then i saw his face sour a little and realized i had slacked on my end of the pushing.

by the time i had my car settled nicely in front of an autozone and right next to a 7-11 (that's a convenience store, by the way; 24 hours of sorta-surveillance) and had caught sufficient breath to turn and thank the man for his invaluable assistance, he had vanished into the night.  which in itself was of course another sort of kindness on his part towards me.

when i got home, at some point, the living room conversation turned to things like kharma, and i wished out loud for all to hear that i hoped instant kharma were true, because that guy deserved something for helping me, at least, as far as i'm concerned.  and i got no damned opportunity to thank him either...but i should sound more appreciative and less bitter about it, shouldn't i?

my mind
is a cluttered room. 

can't you just picture it?

i would try
to tidy up, but
i never have company
so who would recognize
or appreciate the effort? 

if you do happen to stumble inside
i'd like to apologize
ahead of time
for anything too vile
that you may find hiding in the mess. 

there are many things hidden
beneath many things that were forgotten
once left for dead. 

anyone fool enough to dig around in those piles
might just be surprised
i'd hope 'pleasantly'
but more likely
it will be 'otherwise'. 

so call them surprises
if you like. 

i surmise
that those types of surprises are more likely unpleasant
as they are too often expected in the least
or even more often, not at all. 

have i fallen, and now can't get up? 
or am i still far before that particular fall? 
does anybody really know what i'm trying to say at all?

i guess i am trying again
quite miserably
to apologize.

truly, i am sorry. 

you can see that, can't you? 
that i am sincerely contrite?
i mean, aren't i truly a sorry sight
for otherwise unsore eyes? 

therefore,
and hopefully not for too much more,
do i...?  i do.

i apologize.

a.i : pasadena city hall; a.ii : ...and again; a.iii : ...yet again; a.iv : tree and building; a.v : done and done

b.i : bindi's right eye (as in, "i wouldn't give bindi's right eye to save my own."); b.ii : why i wouldn't;

b.iii : oscar the grouch; b.iv-v : patience, patience

c.i : dreams from his father; c.ii : note to self; c.iii : cluttered existence; c.iv : closer in; c.v : further out 

[where i happen to live now]






[a truer image of home]






[a dog named bindi]

"I'm a friend of the division of labour.  People who can't do anything should make people, and the rest should contribute to their enlightenment and happiness.  That's how I understand it.  The mixing of these trades is done by hosts of fanciers, of whom I am not one."--Fyodor Vassilyevich Katavasov

you're supposed to change your focus.  depressed people are stuck on depressing thoughts, everything becoming proof of the decay that supposedly surrounds them.  i was there in that murky deep, once.  rifling through the uncountable sensory inputs, fingers wanting to twitch, but not able, all i could do was close my eyes.  the muted, grey light of an overcast sky blinded me to the other possibilities.  everything was false.  i must have been closer to an ongoing consciousness of entropy.  the very green of the leaves, the utmost nooks and crannies, the forced laughter of sitcom actors augmented by canned guffaws and push-button applause--all of it amassed to an ashen landscape of prufrockian futility. 

when i walked into the indian place for lunch today, i had to follow in the footsteps, quite literally, of what i'll hastily dub a couple of normal white people.  the woman was young looking, firm and rounded where the media told her she wanted to be, and dressed in what looked like her teenage daughter's clothes.  her lunch companion was older, less firm but more rounded, gruffly mustachioed, and dressed with the same degree of nonchalance as my own father, who cares only that the stitching in his seams not be fully unraveled.  as i walked up the steps behind them, all the while trying to exude an air of "you just happen to be going where i already wanted to go," my appraisals kept changing.  she was the daughter after all; her ass an advertisement spelled "von dutch".  no, they're a long-married couple, just at the point where the conversation is starting to run dry.  no, no; she's the middle aged one, but he's actually her younger-looking-than-his-years retired meal ticket.  i was almost offended that they were going into the same place i was headed. the audacity!

i'd wanted samosas for lunch.  samosas with mint chutney were going to make me very happy, very quickly, so that i could get back to work and finish out another friday.  it turned out that the all-you-can-eat deal didn't include any; i found the chutney while spooning out a bowl of rice pudding, but they didn't have samosas.  i wanted to get some to go, but started worrying that i'd be the only person ordering take-out during buffet hours.  at least i wasn't the only solo lunchist.  they seated all the loners at the center of the restaurant, down this one, long column of tables between the booths.  i'd brought my copy of anna karenina, but didn't dare touch it.  the guy next to me was coughing nervously as he read his paper.  when he left, he actually asked the waiter if he wanted him to throw it away himself, like it would be this incredible favor. 

everything went by in a blur; the frenzied pace kept recalling childhood memories of piano recital jitters.  every bite, i paused to wonder whether what i was doing was wrong or not.  do people wipe the masala gravy from their plates with little torn rags of naan?  i wanted something caffeinated but was too busy avoiding attention and eye-contact to even consider that it might make things worse.  nervous energy fueled my non-stop effort; one bite invariably followed another without pause, until everything on my plate was gone.  thanked god for having allowed enough small bills to accumulate that i wouldn't have to wait for change.  stormed out in a paranoid huff.  the host seemed to be relieved at my departure. 

where once there was only decay, now there is nothing but awkwardness.  instead of the world crumbling around me for lack of meaning, it's me that's crumbling while the world watches disinterestedly.  is he lying?  is he crazy?  what does it matter, so long as he does it quietly, somewhere just a little further over there, and hopefully without leaving too much of a mess where the rest of us might still step in it.